You know how I feel about Sparks, so it should come as no surprise to you that I love this stuff with all of my heart. For any haters out there, it’s just unfortunate that you don’t have the same exquisite good taste (read: mental illness) as the rest of us. Why wouldn’t you love a band fronted by two brothers, one of which sings like a chipmunk and the other who does his best to look like the creepiest of child-molesting uncles who might also be a Nazi? Oh, and the band sounds like Queen on tons of amphetamines. Well, it all adds up to PURE GENIUS to me.

If everybody listened to Sparks on Christmas, there would be far less suicides during the holiday season. Everyone would be too busy feeling foxy.

God bless us, Timmy, everyone. Especially the Mael Brothers, who are probably spending Christmas high on nitrous oxide, running through an elaborate setup that is part asexual strippers, part every Double Dare Physical Challenge constructed into an infinite, strobe lit loop, and gay incest counseling soundtracked with deep cuts from Oingo Boingo.